Merry Christmas, Sydney
by shadowonthesun
Summary: Sydney has left her life as a secret agent and vanished without a trace . . . or so she thinks. This is a oneshot fic.


**Merry Christmas, Sydney** by shadowonthesun (a.k.a. E.J.)

**Pairing:** Sydney and Sark

**Disclaimer:** Alas, Alias and all of its beautiful people do not belong to me.

**Author's Note: **This was done as a response to a Christmas fan fiction challenge in which Sark was required to sing part of a Christmas carol. I wrote this with the intent of exposing a dark time in Sydney's life and I purposefully used a depressive tone to convey this to the reader. This fan fiction is written in present tense and jumps right into a scene in which Sydney is in a bar.

* * *

The bar is hazy with smoke and the air is polluted with the sweet stench of cigars, but, she doesn't seem to notice or care. Her fingertips gently stroke the dark wood surface of the table she's sitting at. The table is pitted and marred with deep cuts from years and years of misuse.

Tears well up in her eyes.

She sniffs and dashes away an escaping liquid drop.

Miles Davis is playing in the background, but she's not really paying attention.

She's entranced by the pale golden color of the liqueur inside her glass.

_Southern Comfort: sweet, warm, comforting, and wonderfully numbing._

Another sip. _Sweet Jesus, more burn. Let it go down slowly . . . slowly._

She has needs, she has desires, but she doesn't want them.

They won't ignore her like she's trying to ignore them.

And, so, she takes another drink, slowly swallowing the liquid fire. She waits for the burn to spread; waits for it to consume her; waits until she is numb again.

She doesn't think about the time, because she's stopped living by it.

She doesn't long for home, friends, or anything else she's left behind.

She doesn't look for meaning in anything. Meaning was for the disillusioned: the ones who always hoped and dreamed, became disappointed, and never learned to quit.

_I used to be that way_, she thinks bitterly.

Another sip. _Sweet Jesus, more burn. Let it go down slowly . . . slowly._

She doesn't speak unless she has to. She feels that her entire life has been made up of wasted words and she's so tired of talking.

She doesn't care about anyone anymore. She had, once upon a time. But things changed.

Another sip. _Sweet Jesus!_

She's grateful for the comfort of her pale gold drink. Her affection for it is quite intense.

"May I join you," A man's British-accented voice, pierces through her thoughts.

She doesn't look up. She doesn't need to.

Her dismay shows, but it is not because she recognizes the timbre of his voice, nor is it because he's discovered her location when she'd worked so hard to cover it up.

Her dismay shows because she can't stop the sudden leap her heart makes when he draws near her; because, the liqueur hasn't completely numbed her and she feels something she doesn't want to feel.

"This is for you," he says as he seats himself across from her and takes something from his coat pocket.

Despite not wanting to, her eyes follow the small, red, velvet box he is sliding toward her.

"A gift. From Irina."

Her heart leaps again. _Irina. Mom . . . Mom._

Though she's almost convinced herself that the time she'd spent with her mother was only a dream, her mother's earrings on the night stand, beside her bed, always reminds her it wasn't.

She's afraid to reach out and take a hold of the box. She's afraid of what she'll find inside.

She's afraid of receiving anything that might speak of her mother's love. Because, those rare moments where she actually thought it was possible, that her mother cared for her, turned out to be the times her mother committed her greatest acts of betrayal against her.

So, she gets up. She walks out of the bar and into the blizzard, crossing snow-covered streets until her fingers and toes become numb. As numb as she longs for her soul to be.

A vehicle pulls up beside her.

"Get in," he orders.

"Please," she finally says something, "leave me alone."

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Miss Bristow. Now, please, get inside."

Of course he will kill her. She'll let him, too. She's so tired of running away and trying to hide.

She sighs with relief as she climbs into the passenger seat. _It'll soon end. All of this will soon disappear. _

The vehicle pulls away from the curb and makes its way along the snow-packed roads.

She feels his blue eyes on her, but she stares straight ahead. She thinks if she concentrates hard enough, she'll find herself back at the bar, enjoying her Southern Comfort instead of waiting for him to put a bullet in her brain.

_He smells good._ She can't help but notice. _He smells like a rain forest, like the potent smell of rain and sunshine mixed together. _

She wonders if she should be surprised when he pulls into her driveway, but she's not.

She gets out; so does he. She opens the front door, he follows her inside, and he shuts it.

The small house is just as cold as it is outside. It's also dark. The curtains are drawn, blocking out any daylight. It's the way she likes it.

She bites her tongue to keep from snapping at Sark when he flicks on a light switch.

It's very messy: blankets are strewn on the couch, empty tubs of ice cream sit on the coffee table, and half-filled glasses of peach schnapps adorn the end tables and the top of the tv.

She's not going to apologize for the messiness. It's her house. She can do whatever she wants with it. Besides, she doesn't care.

She keeps telling herself that.

Sark's not there to give her tips on housekeeping anyway, he's there to enjoy the sight of a bullet entering her skull, the sound of the last breath she'll ever take, and the satisfaction he'll feel when her body crumples to the floor.

But it all seems so casual, the way he digs his hands deep into his pockets and follows her into the kitchen.

She wonders where his gun is and when he'll choose to use it on her.

She needs something strong and stiff, something to knock her out so she'll not feel anything. Her hand reaches up and opens a cupboard.

A body presses against her back. A different, very strong and masculine, hand reaches around her and shuts the cupboard door she just opened.

_Shit._

His nearness, again, is affecting her and she's unable to control her body's reaction to it.

Her pulse jumps. The air leaves her lungs.

He clasps her wrist and she knows he can feel the racing pulse beneath her skin.

"Come on." He says in a deep tone.

She stands by, helplessly, as he builds a fire in her fireplace. She doesn't want a fire made, but what will it matter in just a short while? She'll be dead.

And perhaps, as she lay on the carpet in a pool of blood, he will finish one of her glasses of peach schnapps and sit comfortably by her fire until it burns out.

She's closing her eyes and craving a bottle of Southern Comfort. She's dreaming of its pale golden liquid passing warmly down her throat, numbing her, sweetly, through and through.

Music is suddenly playing and she smiles sadly because he's chosen her mother's favorite Christmas record.

She pictures it: Nat King Cole will sing, "Although it's been said, many times, many ways, Merry Christmas to you." Meanwhile, Sark will pull out his gun, smile portentously, and say "Merry Christmas, Sydney," before pulling the trigger.

She shivers at the thought.

_He's a cold-blooded killer_, she reminds herself, _this is what he does._

She feels his hand at the back of her neck. He pulls at a fist full of her hair until she is forced to look up at him.

"Aren't you going to ask what I've come here for?" His tone is deep and velvety.

"I know why you're here."

He leans in close and whispers, "I've missed you."

It enervates her. There's an ache inside that she doesn't want to feel. She wants her numbness back. Why was he trying to destroy her slowly? Why had he not chosen a quick and painless death for her?

He's looking into her eyes, searching for something.

Finally, he releases his hold of her hair, places his hands at her waist, and leads her in a slow dance around the living room.

He hums to the carol being sung.

She blinks back tears and tries desperately to concentrate on something other than him, other than the utter madness creeping inside.

He begins to sing softly near her ear, "O ye, beneath life's crushing load, whose forms are bending low, who toil along the climbing way with painful steps and slow; Look now for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing; O rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing, . . . peace on the earth, good will to-"

"Stop it!" She snaps at him.

He chuckles. But she doesn't care, she's losing her mind. He's driving her insane with this game he is playing.

"Please. Just do what you came here to do."

"You assume my purpose in coming here is to extract your life."

"What other reason could there be?"

"Irina sent me."

"I'm sure my death will bring good news to her."

"What about to your father."

She's been like an inactive volcano for the last few months and now she can't stop from erupting at his words.

"My father's been dead for three months, you son of a bitch!" She yells furiously as she hurls a glass of peach schnapps at him. "Stop playing these mind games with me, Sark! Just do what you came here to do!"

He ducks as another glass flies toward him. It misses her intended target and shatters against the wall.

She doesn't stop yelling, nor does she quit throwing things at him; so, he tackles her to the floor and pins her there.

"Feels good, doesn't it, Sydney? That surge of anger, that rush of adrenaline, that sudden need for violence. You used to crave it," he says breathlessly as he continues to try and hold her down.

She stills herself beneath him. _He's wrong_. She's sick of fighting, sick of struggling, sick of the drama her life has always been.

"Jack's death was staged. Your mother and father are in Spain, Sydney."

"No! I was in the ICU with him when he died!"

"Perhaps this will convince you, then." He says as he reaches into his pocket and produces the red, velvet box he'd offered to her earlier.

He presses it into her limp hand. Tears begin to fill her eyes and trickle down the side of her face.

"Merry Christmas, Sydney." He says as he bends down to place a soft kiss on her lips.

The kiss lingers.

She doesn't move, doesn't resist.

"Just one taste. Just one." He whispers against her mouth.

She inhales sharply at the sudden feel of his wet, warm, tongue sliding against hers.

Before she can react, he stands up and moves toward the door.

"Wait." She whispers, but it's too late because he's already gone.

She is still lying on the floor. Her hair continues to soak up her tears as she opens the box.

Inside it is a plain, unmarked, envelope. Inside the envelope is a photograph.

She sobs as she stares, blurry-eyed, at the couple who are pictured there: her mother and father; both smiling happily and holding each other tightly.

"Dad, I don't understand! I miss you so much!" She whispers hoarsely as she lovingly caresses the photo of his face. "Where are you?"

She turns the picture over and discovers a message.

Only three words appear in bold, black, letters:

**Truth takes time.**


End file.
